


Words

by xaara



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Episode Related, Gap Filler, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-09
Updated: 2006-05-09
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaara/pseuds/xaara
Summary: Shock, he thinks.  This is probably shock.Gapfiller for episode 5.10.





	Words

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

**Words**  
  
They don’t talk on the way back to Brian’s loft. They don’t look at each other, either--Brian just drives, mechanically, the route so ingrained in his memory that he barely glances at the streetsigns. The part of his mind that won’t stop clicking tallies up a lot of random shit, starting with the complete and utter ruin of his clothing, the dirt gritting between his eyelashes, the soreness of the back of his throat, rubbed raw by the smoky air. The knot in his ribs from where Ben grappled with him to keep him from attacking that fucking stupid doctor. The fact that while this small, productive part of his consciousness is currently keeping tabs on the world around him, the rest of his mind is so fucked that whenever he ventures out into it he’s immediately swept back by a wave of panic that threatens to choke him.  
  
Shock, he thinks. This is probably shock.  
  
It makes sense: an axis of his life destroyed, the desperate fear that it had taken with it his other focal points, one fell swoop, God’s last fuck with Brian Kinney. His mother would think it fitting.  
  
He reaches over, impulsively, blindly, reaches out to touch Justin, because he has to feel him beneath his fingers, has to know he’s real, has to fucking _know_. The pad of his index finger touches Justin’s arm and the younger man flinches away before reaching up to take Brian’s hand in his own, to twine their fingers. He doesn’t even make some smartass comment about driving with both hands on the wheel, which worries Brian more than it should. But Brian doesn’t say anything, _can’t_ say anything. He just keeps driving until he’s parked and then realizes that he’s at the loft, that he’s home, that he didn’t even ask Justin if he wanted to come here, just pulled him into the car and took off.  
  
Their silence lasts them all the way up the stairs, into the apartment, through two shots of the closest hard liquor Brian can find. He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Justin comes up behind him and touches his arm. Without thinking, he jerks away, spins away. The shot glass falls from his clumsy fingers and bounces twice, two tantalizing notes, before it shatters across the kitchen floor.  
  
“Fuck,” he says. His own voice, low and harshened by the smoke, startles him. There is a problem, he sees. Recognizes. This is good, right? That he can recognize a problem? There’s glass on the floor. Can’t let the glass stay on the floor; someone might step on it, cut himself. He is suddenly aware only of a need to move Justin away, and he mutters something about sharp edges and blood and herds Justin toward the living area with his whole body, shields him with his back, nothing is going to fucking touch this kid, not now, not ever, nothing is going to make him bleed or cry because you’re going to have to fucking get through Brian first and it’s easier to get off Alcatraz.  
  
“Hey,” says Justin, digging his heels in, easing Brian to a stop. “Hey. It’s okay.” He curves a palm around Brian’s cheek and moves in close. “I’m okay,” he whispers. “Mikey’ll be okay.”  
  
But it’s not fucking _okay_ , it’s never going to be _okay_ , and the word doesn’t hold any reassurance anymore, is just two letters strung together. Breathe, Brian thinks. Breathe.  
  
“I’m here,” Justin says. “I’m not going anywhere.” His eyes glisten and he doesn’t stop running his fingers down the side of Brian’s face. Brian thinks about asking him to stay there forever, stand there with his fingers warm and so very alive. He thinks about repeating the words.  
  
I love you, he could say. I love you oh fucking Christ I love you. But the words still don’t mean the same thing to him as they do to Justin; he suspects they never will. Brian’s always been better at letting his body and his actions speak for him.  
  
So he kisses Justin, hard, wraps his arms around him and backs him into one of the beams supporting the ceiling of his loft. He curls a hand around the back of Justin’s head to break the impact, but doesn’t let go, doesn’t stop. He kisses Justin, and tastes smoke and dirt and plaster, so he dives deeper into the kiss until he tastes Justin again. Some part of him needs to know that he can still do this, that he can still press his body into Justin’s until the clothes they wear are simply a formality.  
  
“Michael,” Justin murmurs. Brian pulls back, confusion twisting his expression.  
  
Michael? Then Brian’s world drops back into place, his mind starts firing on all cylinders again, and he remembers. The part of him that runs a business creates a to-do list: visit Mikey, find Ted, figure out what the fuck happened.  
  
Justin smiles a tiny smile and nudges Brian away with his hips. “Deal with it,” he says. “I’ll be--”  
  
For a moment, Brian is sure he’s going to finish with “in the shithole I call home,” but Justin says instead, “I’ll be here.”  
  
“Okay,” Brian says. At least, that’s what comes out of his mouth. But his fingers, tugging at Justin’s shirt, running nervously through Justin’s hair, trailing paths through the dried sweat and ash on Justin’s cheek, say don’t leave me, thank God you’re all right and fuck I was so scared, I’ve never been so scared.  
  
When Justin looks up, Brian knows he understands. They walk towards the bedroom together, not touching. Brian washes his face while Justin rummages through the closet for the clothing he left in his last attempt to move out. Arrogant little shit, doesn’t even bother to ask whether Brian kept the sweater and t-shirts and pair of jeans that he forgot.  
  
“I’ll be back,” Brian says. It comes out like a promise. It’s probably the closest thing to a promise he’s ever made.  
  
He’s surprised to notice that it doesn’t hurt. His stomach hollows in the sudden rush of awareness, and his head aches, but the pain is superficial, a byproduct of circumstance. The promise burns somewhere in his chest, and scalds him like a shower turned the perfect temperature, aching and cleansing.  
  
“I’m going to get out of these clothes,” Justin says. “If you’re not back by morning, I’ll meet you at the hospital.”  
  
“Okay,” Brian says again, feeling stupid. He’s the one with the words, the one for whom words are a lifestyle, but tonight they fail him in the little places and only work in the big ones.  
  
He shrugs on his jacket and walks toward the door when the crunch of glass beneath his foot reminds him of the mess still spread across the floor near the kitchen. “I’ll take care of it,” Justin says.  
  
Brian doesn’t even try to reply. He knows he’ll only say okay again, and while that might be acceptable conversation for some, Brian Kinney finds it somewhat lacking. When he reaches the hall, he half-turns. Justin shakes his head and makes a shooing gesture and Brian reverses the turn, takes a deep breath, and drags the door shut behind him.


End file.
